Bad Weather
by Harry4nips
Summary: dave is afraid of thunderstorms. (i dont do titles ok i hate them)


-turntechGodhead began pestering ectoBiologist at 9:48 p.m.-

TG: dude do you still have the spare key to my place

EB: of course i do. why?

EB: do you need it back?

TG: no i need you to use it

EB: use it? how?

TG: on my door dumbass

EB: did you lock yourself out or something?

TG: if that will get you over here then yes

EB: dave

EB: are you feeling okay?

TG: dandy

TG: now get your ass over here

EB: come on dave it's raining :B

TG: im aware

TG: im very aware

TG: im probably more aware than the rest of the fucking tristate area

TG: look if youre not gonna help me

EB: ok i'll be there in ten

EB: damn

TG: thank you

You rush over to Dave's place to see what the fuck his problem is. It's not like him to forget his key. And he hasn't even spoken to you for, like, a month now. Found himself a boyfriend six or so months ago; and your conversations got less ans less until he just stopped texting you altogether. Actually, you aren't even sure why you kept the spare key. You could, and should, have dropped it off at his place when he stopped giving you the time of day. But then, you do miss him, and this at least gives you an excuse to see him. You supposed Ross would have a key to Dave's place by now, so he must not be there. Lucky for you.

At Dave's building, you take your time getting to the elevator. You aren't trying to prolong things, just feel no need to rush. Holy shit, that was loud. Was that thunder? That was totally thunder. Or maybe Satan himself had unleashed his vast cry amongst the lobby of the apartment structure. Whatever it was, it was beyond terrifying. Something about the walls made the sound spring about the room like a pinball, engulfing you on all sides. Maybe you'd hurry just a little; you didn't really wanna be in this building with this kind of weather.

The elevator seemed to be hanging on its last leg, hitting menopause, or something equally as bad. This rusty piece-of-shit transportation device was barely inching up to the top floor where Dave was. Creak, creak, creak. Hot damn, you should have taken the stairs. You've never felt good about stairs, always afraid you'd fall down them or something. But you consider that more appealing than this thing. Three more floors to the top level and the thunder hits again, turning the boxcar into a blender. It doesn't stop shaking, even after the sound dissipates, and you're forced to cling to the walls until the doors open.

And open they do, thank the fucking heavens. You're definitely taking the stairs back down. Once you've re-established your footing, the only thing left to do was unlock Dave's door.

He wasn't in the hall. So, he wasn't locked out. That gets you thinking, this whole thing could be a ruse. You can picture him waiting behind the door, jumping out and laughing in your face. Kissing Ross right in front of you. "I found out about your little crush on me, Egbutt. Had to find out if you truly did want my ass. Sucks for you." All just to witness your heart sinking to the floor. It almost makes you turn around and leave the key on the floor. But some sick part of you still wants to see him.

The key slides in the door quite nicely, despite your trembling hand. "Dave?" Every light in the apartment is off.

Your pocket buzzes. TG: im in my bedroom

You hold your breath. EB: look i'm just gonna leave the key on the counter and go ok?

TG: no come in the room

EB: i'm not so sure i should

TG: PLEASE

Whoa. The urgency scares you, and you tell yourself if it is a prank, that a swift kick to the scrotum is justified. So to the room you venture. The lights are off in there too, and you don't spot him on his futon. "Dave, if this is a prank-"

"Ih 'ere."

The muffled voice came from the direction of the closet. What in the almighty fuck was he doing in there? If he was planning on scaring you, he was doing a shitty job by cluing you in on where he was hiding. Hesitantly, you take a few steps toward the door. Another loud crash from the storm, and a wail permeates the room you stand in. You fling the door open.

The coolest guy you know, the best friend you've ever had, and the biggest crush you've sustained thus far, is curled into a literal ball in the farthest corner of his bedroom closet, rocking back and forth and whimpering like a child. "Dave?"

He lifts his head, revealing completely red eyes. They were so swollen and bloodshot, it was as if his irises began seeping into his sclera. Those full, pink, beautiful lips of his were now quivering up their own storm. His nose was red and the rest of his face was sunken and pale. A vice grip held his chest to his knees, afraid to hinder the hold at all. He sniffles and stares at you, waiting for you to join him on the floor.

Sinking to your knees, he basically crawls on top of you, moving the vice grip to your hoodie. You can feel his heart making leaps and bounds inside his ribs, which see to settle some when he's gotten comfortable in your lap. "Th... thanks for coming."

"Shit, Dave. I knew you hated storms, but it's never been this bad. I actually thought you got over it."

He hid his face into your chest. There were sobs, but no tears. When the thunder struck again, he jumped and tensed and clung to you, but when you rubbed his back, he melted and breathed more evenly. A few more strikes, he downgraded from a jump and yell, to a jolt and a whimper. It was awkward holding him, since he was a good half-a-foot taller than you, and quite lanky. It was also awkward because you had no shitting clue where you stand with this guy. Shouldn't Ross be the one here, rocking him into a slumber on the floor of his closet? Shouldn't it be Ross, his boyfriend, instead of John, his forgotten ex-best-bro? Where was that blonde motherfucker anyway?

It's probably for the best. You met him once, twice maybe. He was snarky, headstrong, arrogant. If he were, in fact, the one to answer Dave's texts, he would've torn the Strider boy apart with psychoanalysis. "The fear of thunder comes from our monkey ancestors, and you probably had a traumatic childhood experience. If you ask me, it's quite absurd for you to be sobbing like an infant, on the floor of your closet no less." Bastard probably wouldn't even try to calm him down.

Maybe that's why he called you. Fuck you, Ross Lalonde.

At long last, you can't feel him trembling anymore, or hear his loud, breathy scared noises. He's gone limp. Dave Strider has fallen asleep in your arms. No wonder. Being scared beyond shitless is really tiring. And he's kind of too heavy to carry to his bed, so you just silently agree with yourself to stay here. This is pretty satisfying, to be honest.

You pull put your phone to check the time. A little past eleven. Ain't no way you were going home now. Sorry, Dave, the two of you are sleeping where you currently lay. From the light of your phone, you examine Dave's face. The heavy, dark circles seemed to be chiseled under his eyes. They've been there a while. He missed a few spots shaving. He's gotten sloppy. His cheek bones are more prominent. Has he been eating enough?

And then your peripheral vision catches something else. Your eyes wander down to his arm, laying wrist up in his lap. It reveals several deep lacerations on his skin. They were jagged, careless, and ugly. The newest ones were still crusting over with scabs. Hours ago. Upon more light and twisting his arm this way and that, you saw more. They crept up his arm, converging mostly at the elbow. The farther up his arm , the older, thinner. and whiter the scars. But the ones closest to the wrist were thick and deep and it sent a shiver down your spine. The only- only- consolation at all, was you saw no tic-tac-toe board. If he had gone vertically, you'd probably start crying right then.

Oh Dave. What has this guy done to you?

Silently, gingerly, almost like a ghost, you connect your lips to his forehead, and drift somberly to sleep.

The next morning, you and Dave stir awake simultaneously. However, he seems less aware of the situation. It takes a lot of blinking, a few eye rubs, and one very sexy moan-and-stretch ritual for him to yawn out, "John?"

You do your own stretch, more silently, and rub your very stiff neck. Although it was satisfying, it wasn't very comfortable. Whatever you said, you can't recall the specific words, it convinced him enough how you guys ended up on the floor of his closet, because he merely shurgs and walks out. He fucking stood up and walked away, with a back-crack and everything. You can barely muster a half-hearted crawl. Either way, you both end up in the kitchen.

"Want some coffee?" he offers, pouring some Cheerios into a bowl.

"Sure." Taking a seat on the couch, you lay your head back and wait for the sleep to drain away.

He stays at the stove, not saying anything as he munches on his cereal. He's staring at the floor. When the coffee machine beeps, he pours two cups and walks over to where you sit. "I know you like it black, so I put a scoop of sugar in there."

You scowl and take the cup. "Gee, thanks, asshat." Taking a sip, you decide it's still drinkable. He sits on the far side of the couch, once again, ingesting in silence. It almost breaks your heart he would be so needy yesterday, and so distant today. You make a big show of sniffing your underarm. "Do I stink? Is that why you're all the way over there, man?"

His eyes soften and he gives a tiny smile, scooting next to you. He lays his head on your shoulder. "Actually, you do kind of smell."

"Shut the fuck up."

His laugh breaks whatever ice was left over, and you both chat for a good twenty minutes before asking your questions. "So, Dave..."

"Yeah, bro?" He leans up and sets his empty cup on the table.

"Why did you call me last night?"

He sighs and comically rolls his head in your direction. "I didn't call you. I texted you."

"You know what I meant, you insufferable doucheface."

"You incorrigable dickwad."

"You irrevocable cuntmuffin."

"You incoherent footcookie."

"You underdeveloped potato."

"You useless soggy paperclip."

"How the fuck-"

"Don't ask."

"-can a paperclip-"

"It fit the moment."

"This is getting us nowhere."

"Less than nowhere."

"I think we're going backwards."

"I called you because." He stops. "Because I knew you would care enough to show up and not laugh at me."

"What about your boyfriend?" you casually offer into your cup.

"I've been single for a month, John."

You nearly spill the last bit of your coffee down the front of your shirt. "What? Really? What happened?"

He looks at his hands, wringing them uncomfortably in his lap. "You know, it's funny." He doesn't sound too amused. "Broderick always taught me the Strider charm was toxic. Infectious. Too much for one girl- or guy, for that matter- to handle. I guess he was right about one thing. That guy couldn't handle me. It wasn't my quote-unquote charm, though. My diseased brain. So he went and fucked some healthy guy, coming home in time to cook dinner that night." You heard something in his voice snap. "And even after I found out, I begged him not to leave. And I guess that of all things scared him off."

You aren't sure what to say. What a pompous, flaming cocksucker. All you can do is put your arms around and pull his face onto your shoulder. He sighs a shaky breath, like he's about to cry, but keeps it together.

"I almost didn't ask you last night. I was certain you'd hated me by now."

"I don't hate you, man. I love you, alright?"

He snuggles his face into your neck. "I love you, too." His arms slink around your waist, and you're almost obligated to lay parallel on the couch. He reciprocates and rests with one knee between your legs.

"Dear God," you think. "Please don't, please don't, please-" Shift. Graze. Too late. You try and sit still, making your whole body go rigid.

"Something wrong?" he asks without opening his eyes.

"N- no. I'm chill."

"Good," he says and moves again. Okay, he did that one on purpose. Nonetheless, you squeak in surprise. Instant crimson on your cheeks. "Stop squealin', Egbutt. It's kinda turnin' me on."

You manage a smirk. "Best calm yourself, Striderp. Amorous activity isn't recommended for early in the morning."

"Who's callin' this-" A slow, firm grind, "-amorous?" You hold back another noise and bite the inside of your cheek.

"Two can play at that game." You buck your hips into his, making sure to get contact with his crotch. His breath hitches and his lips part in the most delicious way.

Quickly those lips turn up into an evil grin. He bites his lip and fluidly grinds his entire body against you. A small, embarrassing moan rolls from the back of your throat. He takes it as an invitation to repeat the action. You hike your knee up between his thighs and grab two handfuls of his ass, rolling into his thrusts. At this point, he doesn't bother hiding his arousal, growling and digging into your sides, which causes you to shiver with pleasure. He tangles his fingers in your hair and you find the two of you lip-locked.

His tongue is wide and warm and slick, tasting like coffee and grain from his cereal. Obviously wanting dominance, his tongue tangos around yours. He knows what he's doing. His hips and tongue gain a rhythm, and you're leaning into all of it. Tugging your hair back, he moves his lips to your neck, searing your skin with hot, juicy bites. You move your hands to his shoulder blades and rake your nails down through his shirt.

The noise that just assaulted the air makes your cock throb, and you attempt to make him do that again. A bite of nails down his back and he's arching into it, quickly sitting up to remove the offending fabric off his torso. He winces slightly, forgetting what his forearm beheld, but not letting it stop him. You have all of two seconds to admire the bare chest in front of you, before his roaming hands creep up your shirt. Pulling it off you, he kisses up your chest. Once it's strewn to the floor, he kisses back down, touching collarbone, sternum, bellybutton.

When he grabs at your zipper, you hands fall prey to his blonde locks. The instantaneous release of pressure from your zipper brings a hiss through your teeth, and he tugs your jeans and boxers down to your knees. "You okay, man?" The question catches you off guard and all you can do is nod, gulping. His breath lolls around your cock and causes you to squirm. With a flick of his tongue, you're shivering.

Slowly, tantalizingly, he takes the head of your cock in his mouth. Your jaw flies open and you can't surpress the whine that escapes. He flicks his tongue back and forth, no doubt mixing your precum in with his saliva. You clutch his hair and yank it back, causing him to suck. If only he'd stop being such a damn tease; you were already close to the edge. His hands disappear, and you slit your eyes open to see him unzipping his own jeans. In one short moment, he has a hand around his dick, using the other to spread your legs a little wider apart. Diving back in, your entire length is in his mouth. He bobs his head up and down, sending waves of pure bliss through your nerve endings. Every suck, every flick, every knock against the back of his throat. It all ebbs through your body and explodes in your head. It turns into a vicious cycle of you shoving yourself in further, causing him to tug himself a little faster, causing him to groan and cry, vibrating up your shaft and numbing your thought process.

"Dave..." you whisper, which quickly turns into a scream. "Oh my- fuck, DAVE."

You can feel him shudder and release an outcry that he (being an ironic cool kid) would describe as girly and pathetic. But honestly that's the only noise you want to hear from his vocal cords again. All this noise and movement from his orgasm enduces your climax further, finishing just moments after him. He doesn't seem to mind you riding it out at your own pace, which includes shoving yourself as far back as you can go in his mouth.

Still breathing heavily, still blurry-visioned, still exposed-dick'd, you pull Dave back up to your level, kisisng him sweetly. There's slimey reminents of you in his mouth, and that's gross, but you'll worry about it later. The two of you lay in post-coital bliss for a decent amount of time, and you snake your fingers into his.

"John..."

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"...You don't even know what I'm sorry for."

You shrug. "Doesn't matter. You're sorry. And that means it's okay." He fits his face into the crook of your neck. Then you pull his arm up to kiss his wrist. "No more. Please."

"Promise you'll stay."

"I never left.."

And you just hear a very small, very weak, very defeated... "Okay."


End file.
